


i dont trust the fall

by 2space_lesbo1



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fallen Angels, Graphic Description, I'm Sorry, M/M, Pain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 08:13:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19147042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2space_lesbo1/pseuds/2space_lesbo1
Summary: Heaven is not pleased with Aziraphale.





	i dont trust the fall

**Author's Note:**

> aaahhhh i came up with the idea of a fallen!aziraphale fanfic where instead of him falling becoming a demon, hell rejects him as well and becomes a regular human. crowley is there of course and theres a ton of angst. odl if ill actually continue it, but i did start the next part and @azirasphales on tumblr likes it so we’ll see lol. if you read it let me know what you think and if youd like more :)

The pain started with his true form being torn apart. 

They started with his wings- the ones behind his ears, and gradually worked their way downward, until he'd had not a single pair left, making sure to slowly tear each from his body. Then they'd ripped his second pair of eyes from his skull, tossing them aside as they drained the grace from his body. Then they started to pick each and every feather from the rest of his body, going down from the base of his neck, down his spine, and to the base of his back. Then his limbs began to tear from his body, leaving him with only two arms and two legs. He remembers the pain from it all- how indescribable it was. That it had been… ineffable. 

And then he had fallen. 

But not into boiling sulphurous as Crowley said he'd splashed into. Instead, he crashed directly into the Earth; wingless and powerless; weak and frail. 

Completely and utterly human. 

The pain had been so great. His entire being ached and burned, and he couldn't even move from the spot he'd crashed into. He could only tell that he'd formed a crater of sorts around his body, dirt and rocks covering his bare skin. He curled inwards on himself, body shaking as tears he refused to let fall slid freely anyway. 

He'd Fallen. 

But not even Hell wanted to accept him. They wouldn't let him keep his immortality or powers, or his wings. They didn't even let him enter. 

He was neither angel nor demon now. He was just… human. 

And it was horrible. 

His skin burned, his muscles ached, his eyes stung and his head pounded. He couldn't move; not that he'd wanted to even if he could. He couldn't feel his wings- probably because they were gone- and he felt so tiny without his true form’s warmth and comfort. 

Having his true form to lean on when he felt small on Earth had always been a comfort he'd depended on. Now he was without. 

His ears rang and his tongue was dry and his throat was parched. He was thirsty and hungry and tired all at once but all he did was close his eyelids; they'd been heavy before and he was tired of being awake to the reality that he was Fallen, that he was human. 

He must have fallen asleep, too, because he became aware of nothing but blackness. Before… when he was an angel, he hadn't dreamed, either. It had been a warm darkness, though, that he knew would eventually end. But now, it was an endless void of pitch blackness that held no care for his presence. 

He awoke to light hitting his face, forcing his eyes open. There's a voice loud and disjointed that makes his head hurt worse- and he wants it to do nothing but be quiet. He's trying to sleep, and he'd be damned- “it's not bad once you get used to it”- if he was going to be woken. 

Something like a hand lands on his shoulder and it's heavy and coarse and rough and scratches his skin. He winces, and the hand is gone from his shoulder in an instant. 

“Aziraphale? Zira, can you hear?” the voice is clearer now, and it was very familiar. He peels his eyes open, a tad regretfully, and turns them upwards, squinting at the light above him as well as some dirt that falls into his eyes. The shadow of whoever is above him is only slightly covering his body, and he only realizes now that when he Fell, he did so without his old clothing. Damn. There went his prized outfit. 

“Zira? Oh, Angel, are you alright?” the word “angel” causes him to flinch even worse than before, and he looks back down, ashamed. Why would someone call him that? As a cruel joke-?

Wait. Only one person referred to him as “angel”. 

“... Crowley?” he whispered, his voice tinny and cracked and causing his dry throat further pain. The hand returns, but now it tenderly caresses his cheek once he's looked up again, the thumb sliding up and down lightly. His eyes finally adjust, and he finds the demon staring down at him with something beyond concern. The sight of his demon has Aziraphale struggling to move, his aching limbs protesting every movement as he continues to try and sit up. 

Crowley is instantly moving, carefully helping him to sit up, the dirt sliding and covering every inch of his skin. It's dry and makes him feel dirty. Not nearly as dirty for Falling, but a close second. 

Yellow, serpentine eyes are staring at his face as one hand slides to rest on his back, helping him to stay sitting, while the other returns to his cheek, wiping at the new tears trailing through the dirt on his skin. 

“Yes, Angel,” he flinched again, “it’s me. I'm here. You're alright.” 

But they both knew that that was a lie. How the hell would Aziraphale be alright? 

Crowley quickly removes the jacket he'd been wearing before he carefully situated it over Aziraphale’s own. The black, leather jacket is large and heavy on his shaking shoulders, but a comfort. It smelt like the demon. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale murmurs, his voice still so small, still so scratchy. The demon leans forward just a bit to better hear him. “I… Crowley, I Fell.” A sob broke free, and his body begins to tremble once more as he cries. He leans forward, fingers nearly clawing at his face if a pair of hands hadn't caught his wrists and pulled into a sturdy chest. So instead, he clings desperately to the demon’s shirt, not caring that he was staining it with dirt and mud and tears. His body still ached and burned; though not as bad with Crowley holding him. If there had been the sound of a demonic miracle occurring to help ease some of Aziraphale’s pain, then the Fallen angel didn't hear it. 

The demon holds onto the Fallen angel, shirt collar dampening from tears.

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry :(


End file.
